


feast or famine

by vicariously kingly (pelted)



Series: Monsters and Cowboys AU [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolves and Vampires, Canon-Typical Violence and Themes, Gen, Historical Racism is still racism and still stupid, M/M, No Spoilers, Pre-Slash -- or at least some very intense pining, monsters on monsters yep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-23 22:31:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pelted/pseuds/vicariously%20kingly
Summary: “To down a werewolf, you need silver bullets."“That’s an old wives’ tale. They’re like wolves. You just gotta shoot right.”Dutch van der Linde's smile had all the finer qualities of a well-honed knife: it glinted in the full moon's light, sharp and ready to cut. “Are you willing to wager on that?”( werewolves lurk in these hills. )





	1. The Homestead Incident

**Author's Note:**

> No spoilers included! This is full AU territory, though it's arguably set "during" the beginning of the game (as in, Sadie is there).
> 
> Slight **warning** for canon-typical racism and other white-bred nonsense. Please don't take the opinions of the ignorant feller as the opinion of this author.

“The thing about werewolves is-- that is, the big, critical, _key_ thing about them monsters, is--”

“You don’t know they’re monsters ‘til the full moon?”

“ _No_ , you small-minded fool. It’s that you _do_ know they’re monsters, ‘cause it’s in their nature. They’re the ones rustling livestock, the ones sniffing ‘round your mom’s skirts while your dad’s out on honest work, the-- the rambunctious degenerates.” 

“Don’t see how there’s much difference from any other rambunctious degenerate.”

“See, those all-human degenerates, those good-for-nothing - those thieves, those, ah, killers - well, there’s still a man in there. He answers for his crimes by the merciful hand of the law. But with werewolves, it’s just-- it’s a monster in a man suit.”

“You mean, a monster in human clothing?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Sure, I guess, but ‘man suit,’ that’s pretty odd. Think my wording rolls off the tongue much better.”

“Oh, shut up. As I was saying, with werewolves, unlike men, you can put ‘em down for the betterment of society without any fuss from the law… Let nature take its natural course. And get paid better than most any bounty.”

“And you’re sure it’s easier than most bounties, too?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely. Now, of course, it’s not that I’ve ever hunted a werewolf myself, but I hunted wolves in the high country last fall when I was working in the lumber crew. This can’t be so different.”

Late fall on the western plains meant dry brush tall as a pony’s rump and near nowhere to hitch a horse without stepping on a cactus or five. Homesteaders had done their best to make something of the land, but they’d largely backed up to the rivers as the land refused to yield anything better than scraggly cobs that made nobody except the pigs happy. 

Worse yet, the dry grasses proved a high propensity for wildfires. Not even the pigs stuck around to deal with the aftermath of a poorly tended campfire.

 _Worst_ yet was the insanity the natives threatened any well-meaning, pioneering soul with: werewolfism.

The brush-fires and poor land, the people were willing to contend with. They’d find a way, as their forefathers had when they’d crossed that great pond from wretched Europe.

The absurdity of a man becoming beast, and beast consuming man-- oh, lord above, that was the devil’s own running wild. The West was a nice reprieve from civilization, but a God-fearing soul still had standards.

Which led to folk taking up arms and rooting out the werewolves. The tribes were easy enough, being concentrated and predictable as they were. The non-Indians that survived an attack, got corrupted, and then refused to turn themselves in for humane and dignified execution-- _they_ were the real issues. Their good blood couldn’t take the mixing. As an unfortunate consequence, they were as good as beasts themselves by the second moon. It was a mercy to put them down.

And because it was a service to both God and the homesteaders who wanted dearly to return to their involuntarily abandoned land to do so, folk paid handsomely for werewolves. 

To ensure such a handsome collection, however, they needed to be brought in while they were still in their monstrous wolf form.

“... And _that’s_ why we’re out here during a full moon.” One hunter finished triumphantly, quite pleased with his thorough research into this peculiar but well-paying matter.

The other hunter was duly impressed, though his mind lingered on other matters. “I appreciates the fact that a wolf can’t use a rifle, myself. Don’t fancy getting shot at more’n usual.”

“That, too.”

The two had met not a day prior, having both over-heard and become interested in the homesteader’s woes of being driven out of their home by a pack of four ne’er-do-wells with distinctly wolfish airs. When asked how they’d known the folks were werewolves, not just bandits, they’d said it was the eyes. They caught the light like the dog’s own uncivilized predecessor.

That, and they’d had an Indian with them. That presence was a surefire sign of werewolfism being afoot.

Taking the homesteader at his scared, shaking word and bolstered that they were doing the right thing after hearing how the werewolves’ ransacked his family’s home, the two hunters saddled up and rode on to root out the miserable beasts. The land wasn’t more than a half-day’s ride away, but they’d decided to camp out until night fell and a good, bright, round moon rose before they reached the land proper.

“Is that the Smith’s barn, there?”

“Looks like. Alright, let’s leave the horses here.”

The land - a rolling hill made of dust, dirt and the occasional tumbleweed - wasn’t very impressive, and its facilities even less so. If it weren’t for the government offering a bounty per werewolf head, the hunters privately and individually concluded that there was no way they’d bother helping the poor farmer-to-be. Though there was a pig pen and chicken coop by the front, both were devoid of animals. The fields in the back, which should’ve boasted healthy wheat or corn, had gone fallow. Funny, as the farmers certainly couldn’t have afforded to miss a year’s worth of crops.

“Shouldn’t there by howling by now? On account of them being like wolves and all?”

“You ever stop asking stupid questions, buddy?”

“I’m a curious soul. My mama said so.”

“Your mama should’ve taught you how to keep ‘em on the inside. Would save the rest of us a headache.”

“Hey, now, no need to be rude.”

“Hush up. You’re going to tip ‘em off.”

“That _matters?_ ”

“Another stupid question…”

Unhappy grumbling saw the hunters up the dirt path to the barn’s side. Under the white moon, rifles’ metal muzzles gleamed. As they approached, a great, ugly bird took off from the barn’s loft and flapped its way off into the night.

Privately, the lumberjack-turned-hunter agreed that the lack of howling to be peculiar. The timber wolves had howled up a storm when they’d smoked out their den. Maybe it was that these werewolves didn’t feel threatened. Surprise being on their side was for the better, he decided. The thought did a little to calm his nerves.

The barn door, when he gave it a nudge, refused to open. On the other side, a chain rattled; and, beyond the startlingly loud clank of heavy metal, something scuffed around in dirt. 

The hunters exchanged glances. 

A few more somethings scuffed around in the dirt. A whine accompanied the scuffling-- and, on the tail of that, a low growl.

Even through the barns’ thick wooden doors, it sent a shiver straight into the hunters’ bones.

Whatever growled like that had been born and bred to hunt mankind. They knew it even without seeing it.

“That doesn’t sound like no horse, Earl,” the curious soul said.

“Shut _up_ , Henry,” the one-time-hunter hissed.

“Excuse me, gentlemen?”

The hunters jumped and swung around, their rifles snapping up with the turn.

The man put his hands up immediately, clearly attempting to dissuade them from using their guns. “Whoa! Don’t be too hasty, please. I’m sure we can talk this out.”

In the barn, the scuffling and growling went silent.

“Who’re you, mister?” Earl snapped.

“And where’d you come from?” Henry added. “Didn’t see nobody around here.”

“I was on my way home when I saw a pair of suspicious folk trying to break into my good neighbor’s barn,” the man said, dropping his hands slowly to his sides. He had no weapons on him, no pistol at his hip or bandolier across his chest, which was the only reason the hunters didn’t point their own rifles at him. “I was hoping to persuade you two to reconsider whatever delinquency you had in mind.”

Earl wasn’t too sure how the well-meaning but apparently dumb-as-dirt fellow intended to do that without lead to back him up. 

Still, that wasn’t for him to point out. Not while the guy was being so understanding.

“No delinquency here, mister. Just rooting out some nasty werewolves.”

“Did you say werewolves?”

“Yessir, werewolves. The same that drove the Smiths out of their home.”

The man’s eyebrows jumped to his hairline. 

“Is that right.” His mouth curved up at the edge, his teeth a cut of white in the moonlight. “Have either of you ever seen a werewolf?”

“Not yet,” Henry said, “but we’re thinking there’s some in this barn.”

“And why’s that?”

“Smith said there was a savage among their number. Clear sign of werewolves being a foot.” Earl cleared his throat, planting his feet firmly on the ground and giving his best _you don’t belong here_ glare at the interloper. “You best be getting on, mister. Could get messy.”

And, if the guy wasn’t as dumb as he seemed, he’d know how much the beasts were worth per head. Then again, there was no way he’d demand a cut without any bargaining power. Earl wasn’t even sure how much he was going to share with Henry, since he was the one with all the experience. 

“If there truly are bona fide werewolves in there,” -- he emphasized the _if_ with a generous dollop of amusement, sounding not as impressed with the pair of them as he should be --, “I would be worried the mess would end up on the wrong side of the gun barrel, if you catch what I mean.”

“I don’t, sir, and I don’t rightly care. Listen, we’re being hospitable right now, but we’ve got a job to do. Your neighbors’ll be back soon enough.”

“To down a werewolf, you need silver bullets.”

“Is that true?” asked Henry, simpleton that he was.

“That’s an old wives’ tale.” Earl sniffed, propping his rifle on his hip and feeling his ire rise at this continued interruption of an otherwise fine hunting trip. “They’re like wolves. You just gotta shoot right.”

“Are you willing to wager on that?”

“Of course.” He scoffed, looking the man up-and-down. The fellow had fancy clothing-- even had what looked like a gold pocket-watch attached to his pristine red-and-black vest- so, the pickings would probably be good. “Thirty dollars.”

It was Henry’s turn for his eyebrows to jump up. “Wait, Earl--”

“You ain’t in this bet, Henry. This _fine_ gentlemen, who still hasn’t given us a name, _he’s_ wagering.”

“That’s not--”

“Hush!”

“Thirty bucks is no small matter.” The man was far more jovial about it than Earl expected. What a braggart. “But I imagine, to see you take down a werewolf, it would be worth it. Alright. You’ve a deal. Thirty bucks.”

“Don’t be bluffing, now. I can tell a man of your… standing may be inclined to lies.”

The smile tightened at the edges.

“Sir. I would never.”

Henry leaned in to hiss at his ear, “How’re we going to get _in_ to the werewolves, though, Earl? Barn’s locked. From the inside.”

Oh.

“Uh.” Think fast! He thought fast, scanning the meager homestead for anything helpful. “There’s gotta be a… a ladder. Or, hey, we can shoot it open.”

“And tip our hand?”

“Think our hand’s tipped, Henry.”

“If nothing else, you’re right about that.” The man’s smile grew, though it was closed-lip. He stepped forward and clapped a hand on each of their shoulders, giving them a beaming look. “But don’t worry. I have a way in.”

Before Henry could even get out a _you do?_ , the man brushed past them and put his hands on either side of the barn doors. 

He then gave one hard shove.

To Earl’s astonishment, the man didn’t just get stuck in the awkward, embarrassing position of any man trying to use his bare hands to break through chain. Instead, the old wood creaked and _cracked_ , the frame denting and then snapping as the doors crashed open. 

The chain swung wildly to the left, its bolt pulled from the wood.

Inside, the moonlight streamed down from the loft, a bright shaft of light that illuminated the bloodied, torn carcasses of gutted pigs. The stench of fresh death poured from the interior, reeking worse than the inside of a horse’s mouth. The hunters staggered back, gagging, at both sight and smell.

“Boys, Mrs. Alder,” the man called, his hand waved absently in the air as he strode unconcerned into the dark, “I brought you a treat. Don’t say I never do anything for you.”

Out of the dark resolved three unnatural shapes: wolves stretched-out , their forelimbs long and dexterous, their claws a cruel and wicked curve. They came in a variety of sizes and weights, their pelts a range of color from charcoal to golden, though all tended toward _monstrous._

Through the barn doors, the growling had struck a primal chord that sang in fear. In flesh, with no barrier, the snarling shook the hunters in their boots, the hair on their napes standing on-end and their teeth rattling in their skulls. 

True to the Smith’s claim, the eyes caught light and reflected yellow. The farmer hadn’t mentioned how eerie, how surreal, it was to see such glowing discs from a form that might once have been human.

“Oh, sweet Jesus--”

Earl raised his rifle and took a shot at the biggest one’s head.

It snapped back, its snarl cut off in a pained yelp, its paws immediately raising to scratch at the wound; but it didn’t fall. It didn’t crumble. It was nothing like the timber wolves that skulked by the lumber yard.

And while it was distracted, the other two surged forward. They parted like water around the man, who watched with that unwavering amusement, his lips quirked up.

The moonlight caught his teeth - some of which were _too sharp_ , too long, too inhuman. More like the monsters the Europeans had crossed an ocean to escape from. 

Earl felt like a two-timed fool.

He tried to run.

He didn’t make it far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have fallen so hard for this game and all its rootin tootin cowboys and am determined to make content for it even though I haven't even finished chapter 4.
> 
> That said ..... .... idk where this came from. If there's zombies, there should be werewolves and vampires, right? yeah. totally. absolutely.
> 
> Anyhow, thank you for reading! Find me on [tumblr](https://unkingly.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/exkingly) if you like.


	2. Previously . . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has absolutely become 100% self-indulgent wild west werewolf shenanigans.
> 
> that said, please enjoy! this chapter takes place roughly two days before the first and gives some context. and, yes, this author will stan Sadie Adler til her dying breath.

Sadie Alder wasn’t entirely certain what she had gotten herself into.

Or so went the lie she told herself to feel better about not fighting the lifestyle switch as much as she expected she should’ve.

What did it matter whether she took to running wild in the moonlight like any other half-crazed, full-feral maniac, when-- when- _obviously_ \- her life hadn’t gone exactly how it was supposed to, all thanks to some nasty ginger-baked, pasty-skinned, green-skinned bastards? It didn’t matter one lick, that was what.

“That’s the spirit.”

Over a rapidly dwindling cigarette and through wispy smoke, Sadie glared at her newly-familiar conversation partner.

Arthur Morgan gave her a tilt of his hat and wry, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it grin. 

She briefly contemplated putting out her cigarette on his ratty old hat. Because he wasn’t as bad as Pearson or half the others besides, she decided against it. _This time._

“You look pissed off,” he said, tactless in a remarkably tactful way, “more’n usual, I mean.”

She sniffed and, unimpressed with the sentiment or addendum (though lightly amused that he was apparently keeping track of her ire), turned to the side to spit.

He _hmm_ ed, eying her up like some horse that was threatening to kick him in the ass the second he turned around.

To be fair, in that moment, she felt she understood the ornery beasts better than ever.

Finally, he tilted his chin up and declared, without actually declaring: “It’s the moon. Two days off full.”

“Oh, suddenly my poor mood’s all the moon’s fault?” She narrowed her eyes. “Not our rotten state of things? Not the outlaws riding our tails, with the law not a step behind? Not the fuckin’ vampire you folk call our leader?”

Now it was his turn to look amused.

“Our? Two months in, and you’re finally assigning yourself among our lot, Mrs. Alder?”

Her mood, unremarkably, soured further.

“Not like there’s much of a choice.”

He put his hands up, like some smart guy.

“Despite his dressing like he does, Dutch’s still more human than vampire. Same as you still being more human than--”

“Don’t you got something better to do than pestering me, Mr. Morgan?” She bared her teeth in a grimace-snarl, feeling her blood rise sure as the sun on a cold, soulless morning. “I just said I ain’t going anywhere. You want somebody to mess with, go bother that Kieran boy. He’s got less reason to stay than _me_ , thanks to _you_.”

His mouth shut with a click. For a moment, his jaw worked, the unnatural off-yellow of his eyes narrowed and gleaming at her under the brim of his hat. His nostrils flared like he was fixing to get started on some high-and-mighty speech, except that wasn’t his style at all. More likely, he’d throw a punch and break her nose. She’d seen him do as much to folk far less deserving in the little backwater towns they passed through.

Admittedly, those people were typically far more deserving based on their behavior toward others of the Dutch van der Linde gang, but that would be _gracious_ , and she was feeling as far from gracious as hell was to heaven.

A part of Sadie knew she was toeing the line between charmingly stubborn and the disastrous sort of foolhardy. A bigger part of her wanted to push it, and even more, wanted to push him over it.

Unfortunately for her, he didn’t raise to the bait. He just shook his head, made a mysterious quip about her being _just as bad as Marston_ , and took his leave.

“Only your second turning,” he said as he went, which - as far as Sadie was concerned - was four words more than he needed to say in the first place, “so we’ll need to find somewhere secure to hole up. Be ready for that.”

As that made no sense whatsoever, she tossed the butt of her smoke to the ground and snubbed it with her boot, turning on a dismissive heel from his retreating form. “Whatever you say.”

She must’ve looked in a right fit - properly so, she viciously thought, as there was plenty to be in a fit about, starting with her sorry introduction to the motley crew and ending with Pearson’s insistence in treating her like a particularly dull child - because the gang mostly left her alone for the two days to follow. Hosea approached her as the sun set on the same day Arthur had made his cryptic warning about being _holed up_ , but only to ask her if she had any particular qualms with Morgan or Marston that she’d like to get off her chest.

Hosea had a way of asking questions that could trick the most hard-headed horse into drinking water, so she admitted that she didn’t. Not really. Not beyond the same complaints Abigail had, which was that she thought he should be watching the kid more than he did, but that wasn’t really her business and she supposed she understood the situation wasn’t so easy. It wasn’t like anybody’s parents were perfect, after all.

As for Morgan, no. He could be nosy and had an unfortunate tendency to play second fiddle to Miss Grimshaw in the mother-henning department, though he pretended to be gruffer about it. But that wasn’t so bad. 

Why she constantly felt like pushing him into the mud like some five-year-old with a grudge, she couldn’t explain. She didn’t bother mentioning that part, though she had the feeling by his pinched expression that Hosea picked up on it.

Then she asked, before he could bury himself back in a book and pretend he hadn’t grabbed her with an ulterior motive in mind, “Why ask all this now?” 

“They’ll be with you tomorrow night. Matters like this tend to go easier when the folk aren’t, ah, squabbling, before hand.”

“That’s pretty damn cryptic.”

“That it is.” He gave her a tight smile, not so much uncomfortable as distinctly ready to get on with what remained of the evening. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Alder. It’s difficult to explain. You’ll see.”

“I suppose.”

Then he was off, disengaging with a sigh about needing to get back to it, whatever _it_ was. She watched him go with a growing feeling of impending dread.

She did her best to tamper it down, but once she acknowledged it, it refused to abate. Instead, it gnawed at her like a coyote at its own stuck leg: self-destructive, anguishing, and ultimately, terribly futile.

When the full moon came - and oh, it came far too fast - Arthur had her saddle up and follow him and Marston out to a _supposedly_ abandoned farm. She had more than her fair share of doubts about how the farm had come to be abandoned, but by then the sun was settling and, if she were truthful, she found she didn’t care about much other than finding a quiet, dark place to curl up and weep.

The morning of the full moon featured horrendous cramps, the likes of which she hadn’t suffered since she was a newly-minted woman suffering under another monthly affliction, and unending hunger. As her stomach clawed at her spine, noon arrived and, apparently feeling left out of the miserable party, her joints took to aching. By the evening, she felt like her bones had grown three sizes too big for the rest of her body. She found herself squinting at the campfire and in the setting sun’s reddish light, her eyes watering in newfound sensitivity. 

Most of all, she felt _hunger._ The sort that reminded her of being locked in her own basement for who-knew-how-long. Worse, even. 

Pearson, somehow knowing just how to irritate her the most, cut her off from the camp stew on her third bowl. He told her she’d need to haul in her own day-before meals same as everybody else. 

“Day before _what?_ ” She’d snapped, irate beyond belief and unhappy with the lack of O’Driscolls to take it out on.

He sputtered and said, “Mrs. Adler, you know what. Don’t make me say it.”

Yes, she’d known what. Nonetheless, she gave him the best baleful glare she could muster up.

“Be kind,” Javier intervened on her behalf, sitting as he was by the campfire, “she’s new to this.”

“Better get used to it quick.” Ominous words from an unintimidating man. He shook his soup ladel at her while he said it, which definitively ruined the effect. “You’re stuck with it for the rest of your life. No use fighting it.”

“Think I figured that out, _thanks._ ”

Pearson gave her one last glare, then stalked off to his wagon to do who-knew-what. Ruin another decent rabbit with too much pepper, probably. 

To her side, Javier chuckled.

“Don’t mind him. He’s not afflicted. He’s just tired of having to feed all of us that are.”

Sadie blinked. For a brief moment, her curiousity over the unlikely family she’d found herself a part of overtook her general existential discomfort.

“I thought everybody in this camp was… _afflicted._ ” A beat. “Except for Kieran, of course.” 

The kid had it threatened on him every other day, sure, but thus far, the horses liked him and the full moon lacked any pull that she could tell.

She’d figured the rest were afflicted in one way or another, anyhow (and, foolishly, she’d thought Charles the main perpetrator and de facto leader; as she learned he was only a few months shy of being as new as her, she realized that was the wrong assumption to take. Though, the guy did seem to handle the illness better than some — about as well as, say, Arthur, who practically thrived as a misplaced mountain man one evolutionary step away from great ape). Between the lycanthropy and vampirism, the twenty-odd folks had plenty of options for afflictions. Besides, who’d ever heard of humans traveling with such monsters?

Javier looked at her, bemused. The firelight caught in his eyes, the same off-yellow, near-gold as Arthur’s and Micah’s and Charles’ and Tilly’s and, fuck, near everybody. Sadie’d stopped counting once she’d realized she’d need to use more than one hand to keep track.

“Hosea’s not. Neither is Pearson, as I said, nor Swanson, nor Abigail... Little Jack…” 

Wait. “But John’s--?”

“Mmhm.”

“How’s that happen? Pa’s a werewolf, but kid’s just fine?”

Javier gave her a queer look. _Are you really asking me to explain the birds and bees?_ it said. _I don’t think we’re good enough friends, ma’am._

She huffed, in too poor a mood to care about pleasantries and polite society while sleeping one blanket away from the mud, and tapped her foot impatiently. “John’s been bit since before Jack’s coming around, though, ain’t he?”

“Arthur was the one that turned him, yeah. ‘Bout… two years after he came to camp, I’d say?”

Sadie’s nose scrunched up. “That’s a while to wait.” 

“We’re not monsters, Mrs. Adler. We don’t turn everyone who steps into camp.”

“That’s--” _not what I meant,_ is what she wanted to say, but that was too big a lie for even her to cough up. She’d thought that was what werewolves did, with all the stories floating around about all-warrior and all-werewolf tribes. Her experience thus far - in being bitten on the second worst night of her life, in a beast she’d learn later was Arthur Morgan turning her without exactly asking if she’d like it - hadn’t done much to discourage the notion.

Nonetheless, she cleared her throat and started again. “... Alright, fair. I guess, then, what changed whose mind?” 

Confusion flitted across Javier’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Why bite John ever?”

A shifty look replaced his confusion. He dropped his gaze to the fire, his hands clasping between his knees. 

“That’s not my story to tell.”

It was an unsatisfactory answer, to say the least.

She resolved then and there to ask John _immediately_ , if only because she was getting real sick of being left in the dark. 

Unfortunately, by the time she hunted the guy down, he was actually waiting with Arthur for her. Between learning they were riding out for the formerly occupied farmhouse, her unsatisfied hunger rearing its ugly, toothy head with disturbingly precise demands for raw steak, and suffering through Arthur sniping at John for something stupid he’d done on a recent heist (and consequently, John sniping back), she didn’t have the chance to ask what had inspired the on-going breeding of lycanthropy.

Dutch saw them off from the camp, which was to say he asked Sadie how she was feeling, told her to keep her chin up, and that he’d see them all later in the night. He kept away from the horses, as she’d noticed he was liable to do. Animals didn’t take kindly to vampires, apparently. She’d overheard Karen - who definitely belonged in the werewolf portion of the camp - once saying Dutch smelled like a walking corpse, and that unnatural as the rest of them were, he took the cake in abnormal. Mary-Beth and Tilly had readily agreed, saying it was good Dutch apparently didn’t take kindly to other vampires lurking around, because the stench would’ve surely driven the rest of them out. 

Sadie couldn’t tell the difference aside from a vague unpleasantness that hung around the man, but that seemed a natural part of his greasy charm. Maybe one day she’d know what they were talking about. She’d been told she wouldn’t figure out most of her newfound skills until, as Charles put it, _she accepted her new nature._

Whatever bollock that meant.

In any case. How Dutch got around without a horse, she didn’t ask and didn’t much want to know. 

How he got a bunch of folk who apparently were naturally inclined against him to follow him, she didn’t need to ask. One silver-tongued speech was all it took to understand why folk looked to him like he hung the moon. 

_Cryptic bastard,_ she thought, though by Dutch clasping Arthur and John on the shoulders and saying, _you keep an eye on that one, boys,_ she had the feeling she was the only one not filled in on what was going on.

Or maybe she knew exactly what was going on, but didn’t much want to recognize it.

Whatever. The difference made no difference. She was still in a rotten, ache-y, _ravenous_ mood when they arrived outside the barren farmhouse, the sun a red sliver on the horizon and the sky a rapidly darkening, deepening purple.

The only thing that raised her mood was the smell of hog. It overpowered all else. She nearly missed Arthur giving the horses a swat and order to run; she definitely missed whatever conversation he and John were undoubtedly having; she forget her questions about how exactly they’d gotten the farmers to clear out and gravitated toward the barn as if pulled by a string. 

She didn’t notice the silence settling over the quietly shifting noises of docile hogs rounded into pens until the squeak of rusted hinges and heavy clank of rattling chains broke it. When she looked up from the pig’s glassy black eyes -- when she realized she’d ended up on the edge of the pen, leaning heavy against the fence and salivating _way_ too much over uncooked, smelly, still-alive pork --, she watched John give the heavy chains a pull and satisfied head-nod.

He then shrugged off his duster, and started unbuttoning his vest.

Off to the side, Arthur did the same, though he started with hanging his bucket hat on an empty peg on the wall.

The dread that she’d been ignoring spiked, thick and choking.

“Uh,” she started, “boys? Something you want to tell me?”

John got a little color in his cheeks over that, and resolutely turned to face the wall. If that was his idea of affording a lady some modesty, Sadie felt renewed sympathy for Abigail. 

Arthur answered her without looking at her, though he didn’t turn away. “We weren’t going to request nothing of you, Mrs. Adler.”

“Damn straight you weren’t.” Her fingers curled into the pig pen’s fence, the soft, worn wood giving under her nails.

“But it would be easier if you, ah… err…”

“You want to finish that?”

“Not particularly.”

“Good. Listen to your instinct.”

Arthur made a noise like, _huh,_ and dropped it. He went back to de-robing.

Sadie tapped her finger on the fence post. Impatient. Restless.

Hungry. But angry, too. She felt fit to tear into something -- and between the pigs or Arthur Morgan, she wasn’t too discriminatory about what.

“This is going to be a long night,” John muttered. Except he didn’t know the definition of _inside voice_ , let alone how to use it, so it was more a harsh accusation. Toward her or Arthur or their whole situation, she wasn’t entirely sure, but she felt she understood the sentiment. “You two fighting like this for who’s boss. Let me fast-forward it for you, Mrs. Adler; you ain’t gonna win the pissing contest, and not just ‘cause you haven’t the right equipment.”

That was not what she wanted to hear. At all.

She bared her teeth at him, panic giving way to quick-rising anger. “I’m only looking to make clear that I’m not to be messed around with. You two want to let me in on what you’re planning?”

“I’m not planning nothing,” John shot back, still facing the wall. By that point, he had his shirt off. His back, riddled with scars old and young, wasn’t much to look at. “Neither’s Arthur, aside from establishing what should’ve been worked out before you was bit.” 

“Hadn’t much time for negotiation of the finer details in that mess with the O’Driscolls,” Arthur said, possibly in his own - very weak - defense.

Sadie had her own defense, too. It looked more like offense. “You think I would’ve _chosen_ this, Marston?”

He waved a hand at her, hunching his shoulders. “Jeez! I didn’t mean nothing by anything. Just cool it.”

Sadie’s ire spiked, vision reddening at the edges.

Under her hands, wood splintered.

Without hesitation, Arthur turned on the man. “You really have a way with the ladies, don’t you, Marston? Abigail must’ve knocked her head something fierce to find you charming.”

“Don’t you start, Arthur.”

“Or what? _You’ll_ end it? The only feller left who won’t accept him being what he is, even after all this time-- _you?_ ”

“I’m thinking I just might.” John turned on a heel, his shoulders squaring up like he wasn’t as reedy as the rest of them on a poor diet of rabbit stew. In the light, he looked bigger than Sadie recalled, as if he _weren’t_ on the camp rations with the rest of them. Arthur, oddly (- was it odd? It should’ve been odd -), seemed the same. “Wasn’t planning on it going like this, but I’m sick of you riding my ass for no good reason. I left! So fucking what? _I came back._

“And you know what?” He stepped forward, right into Arthur’s space. “I’m thinking the camp could do with some changes. A shift in the guard, if you catch my meaning. It’s long overdue.”

Arthur squared up, too, his fists curled at his sides and his head cocked at a dangerous angle. Everything about him radiated a sudden, undeniable violence, at complete odds with the mild-mannered, possibly soft-headed Arthur she’d come to know in the camp.

He said, voice low and deathly serious, “Watch your tone, boy.”

What it sounded like was a low, rumbling growl. The hogs, startled, started panicked snuffling, awakened and stirred into shuffling far from the snarling men. 

In that moment, apparently forgotten, Sadie decided she was done sitting in the dark. 

She took a step toward the half-clothed men, teeth bared, every nerve in her aching body set aflame.

“Both of you _knock it off_ ,” is what she said. 

Rather, what she meant to say.

Rather, what she communicated.

Only it wasn’t words. It was a snarl, raw and rumbling, and a part of her wondered, _Where did that come from?_

The rest of her was too busy writhing in agony to comprehend anything or anyone.

Her bones _were_ three sizes too big. Her bones were breaking through her skin. Her skin was melting, her muscles flayed, her jaw cracking and breaking, her fingers splintering, her _everything_ set alight. Like being thrown right into a fire. 

She’d felt it once before, though it’d been in the middle of a fight for her life in the burning wildfire of her home and life. 

She didn’t want it. She hadn’t wanted it then, and she didn’t want it now.

She fought it-- fought the wave of red, the pain, the agony, the transformation. Every aspect of the curse newly afflicted, she fought.

As the full moon rose, the beast known as Sadie Adler rose to meet it. 

Unfortunately, the beast had no room for Sadie Adler, nor she for it. 

All she knew was the break of dawn upon her small pad in camp, and the thick copper taste of someone else’s blood in her mouth. The moon stole the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> folks need a snicker bar, everybody knows you shouldn't argue on an empty stomach, you're a completely different beast


	3. Chapter 3

“Thought part of us being holed up was so she wouldn’t eat anybody sentient, Dutch.”

“There’s a fine argument to say that they were hardly sentient, son. And an even better one that says they would’ve gotten themselves killed anyway. Can you believe it? They really thought you’d go down like any common wolf.”

“Yeah, well. We’re just lucky she won’t remember a thing.”

“About that.”

“I’m working on it.”

“We’re on a bit of a time crunch here, Arthur.”

“I know, I know.”

“And John?”

“He’s… coming around.”

“I see.”

“We’re working on it. He’s never been one for listening.”

“Him and everybody else around here. But it’s not listening I’m worried about, Arthur, it’s _reliability._ We’re going to need everybody _focused_ if we’re getting out of this mess before winter hits. And I mean _focused_.” 

“I know.”

“Alright. See that you work it out soon.” Dark eyes scrutinized Arthur’s hunched form, lingering a moment on how he pressed a damp rag to the mottled bruises stretching from his cheekbone to his hairline. The left-overs of receiving a round of buckshot to the face, albeit not his human one. “You are keeping order, aren’t you?”

Arthur grunted. _Well as I can,_ he wanted to say. _I’m not one for leading. Not really. That’s your job._

Except he had been leading for as long as he hadn’t been the only werewolf in the family. So, nigh on a decade. 

He’d been leading by Dutch’s example and Dutch’s request. He found himself tired of it. He found himself without much choice to the contrary.

“New folk always cause waves,” he said instead. “You know that.”

“I do.” The hard look softened, though Arthur heard it more than saw it. He was too busy keeping his eyes closed against the high-noon sunlight and the raging headache sleepless wakefulness brought with it. “And I trust you’ll take care of it. You always do.”

Arthur stayed silent. A bit of him, the bit with golden eyes and sharp fangs, wondered what would happen if this time, he didn’t. 

(The answer was the law of nature, of course. He’d be replaced by someone bigger, better, stronger.

The beast wouldn’t stand for that. Neither would Arthur’s pride.)

Eventually, Dutch gave him a light pat on the shoulder - the side opposite the bruised one, bruises which he hadn’t done more than smile at ( _strong as ever,_ that smile said; _see, I’m not being careless. I know you’ll always be fine_ ) - and took his leave from Arthur’s tent. To his own, possibly; to Molly O’Shea’s, maybe; to Hosea’s, most likely, for planning, strategizing, or a pointed _nothing in particular_. He had long perfected the art of dressing to keep the sunlight off his skin without looking like a complete loon, but it didn't mean he wasn't often happy to remove all the layers as soon as he could.

Once he was alone, Arthur blew out a breath, took a moment more to sit and listen to the chirp of birds and quiet sounds of a camp half-awake, and, having put off follow-up long enough, reluctantly dropped his makeshift press to his side table and pushed himself to his feet.

The thing was, transforming in close quarters was ill-advised at best and a monstrous disaster at worst.

Resisting tripled the problems. No one had told Arthur that: not when he was thirteen and new to the business of becoming a beast once a month; not when he was a few months into thirteen and all but in a hangman’s noose over it (and, perhaps, some petty larceny besides); not when Dutch showed up, smelling like death (and, sooner than Arthur expected, to be trailing death) and took him under his wing. Nobody explained nothing. Hosea tried, reciting tales on texts about lycanthropy. Unfortunately, Hosea barely understood what had happened to his long-time friend on the streets of Chicago, never mind what to do with an occasionally wolf-shaped runt snatched mid-full moon from a one-horse town’s pig pens. 

Help came twenty years too late in the form of a quiet werewolf named Charles who vaguely recalled his mother’s teachings about harmony with oneself.

Before then, he had to figure it out himself.

He figured what Charles would eventually tell him: for one, there was no fighting it. For two, trying to fight it made the moons that much worse. For three, the beast didn’t rear its head once a month - it was there, always, day or night, sleep or awake. The more a person accepted the whole situation, the better their sorry new life would be.

Even in his first few months of being bitten, Arthur Morgan hadn’t much trouble making peace with his situation. He’d been impressed he’d survived the attack that had led to his being turned. He’d been more impressed with how he survived every day thereafter, driven out of his ragtag group of teenaged thieves as he’d been, and came to attribute no small part of that survival to his supernaturally improved senses and newfound hardiness in the wilds of nature.

His giving in meant something like harmony. It also meant he got on with his _other half_ and his other half with him, which put him at the front of the pack whether the others liked it or not.

Sadie Adler wasn’t such a forgiving soul. She was full of fire that refused to bow to anybody, let alone her own newfound demon. In consequence, when the moon rose, the beast left no room for her, either. She wouldn’t remember the night.

John Marston was cut of the same cloth, though he had his ups and downs. Every other month, he got it in his head to fight the beast. Ironically, it made him more a loose cannon than if he’d given it up. He might remember bits and pieces, but he often lacked the fine-tuned control he should’ve had during the transformations. The problem doubled when he wasn’t too pleased with whatever job he needed to do for the gang.

Taken alone, that was all enough reason for them being miserable company during the full moon.

On top of neither being too pleased with taking orders and the small quarters, it made for pure, bloodthirsty chaos.

John’s beast form was a lithe, whip-crack-fast creature, fur dark like oak wood with a spots of white on his chest and muzzle. Despite his size, he hit like a lit stick of dynamite: all surprise, all fury, and no sense of care as to what destruction was left in his wake.

Sadie Adler, it turned out, wasn’t much better. She was unresolved pain personified, a woeful beast looking to take a chomp out of a cruel world-- or, failing that, out of Arthur Morgan’s hide.

The beast in her knew she was supposed to follow his lead, and didn’t much like it. 

By the end of the night, he taught her that she didn’t have to like it to follow order. John, after his own round of fang-and-claw persuasion, decided he’d wait for Arthur to get a little older before he tried usurping him again.

It took too long. And then, because Dutch couldn’t ever leave well enough alone, _people_ had gotten involved.

If they hadn’t been killed, they’d have needed to be. It was all tedious business, and not what Arthur wanted to deal with after a full moon that didn’t involve a pot of gold at the end. 

Well, he supposed, he didn’t have to deal with it. ‘Cause the folks were deader than dead. 

(A full stomach attested to that fact.)

The only highlight of the whole evening, as far as he was concerned, had been the foresight to lock them in with pigs. After the initial tussle that ended with all of them gaining a few scrapes and, fortunately, establishing to Sadie that infighting was _not_ going to be tolerated (and reminding John of the same), they’d found peace around the feast penned in with them. 

The moment of quiet to follow had been interrupted by the smell of humans, but it’d been a promising moment nonetheless.

Deciding both Sadie and John were due some space to process, if they were even awake, Arthur turned his feet toward one of the few in camp who guaranteed not to be a headache, even in the sun-covered hours following the full moon. 

“Hey, Arthur. Take a seat.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Close enough to hear the camp but far enough not to be immediately spotted by anyone wandering within or without, Charles had claimed a shady spot on the ground under a great white oak. He’d brought a cup of coffee with him, but his attention was on the dense forest around their makeshift, temporary home. 

At high noon, most animals had settled in for a midday nap. Occasional birdsong, the rich scent of freshly turned dirt and the rustling of branches in the thin breeze were the only overt signs of life within.

A small part of Arthur, the same that had prickled over the idea of Dutch turning to somebody else to lead the pack, urged him to get up and start tracking. There was food to be had in the forest. Little proved a creature’s mettle better than bringing home something good to eat.

The larger part of him, including his still full stomach, wanted to lay out in the sun and take a nap of his own.

He compromised by remaining awake and aware, and taking a seat next to Charles. A little ways away, just enough to catch more sun than shade. 

If he soon ended up less sitting and more laying in the sparse grass by the tree’s gnarled roots, well, that wasn’t anybody’s business but his own. Charles, of course, good guy that he was, made no mention of it. He put his hat on his chest, and laced his fingers under it. Closed his eyes. Thought about what was worth writing about the night before in his journal. Thought about the damage control and the steps back to _normal_ he’d made with Marston. Thought about nothing in particular, aside from a wry amusement that he’d left his wagon with the idea that he’d actually get some work done, and that clearly wasn’t happening anytime soon.

Instead, he found himself taking in the comfort of the familiar and steady, including the earthy smell of the man next to him under the sweet aroma of coffee. 

Just as he started to doze off, Charles spoke.

“Heard you ran into hunters last night.” 

The comment should’ve been an interruption, and should’ve irritated him.

It didn’t.

Arthur hummed, deep in his throat. Kept his eyes closed. “Bona fide, up-and-coming werewolf hunters. They were sure they knew exactly what they were getting into. ‘Til they came face-to-face with us, anyhow.”

The left side of his face throbbed as if in reminder.

The right side of his mouth twitched up, nonetheless. “Will hand it to ‘em. They got one good shot in.”

Charles made a noise that, generously, could have been called a chuckle.

Something warm unfurled in his chest and eked its way through the rest of his body. His thumbs twiddled on his chest, a quick, restless little circling that he immediately put a stop to.

The feeling wasn’t as quick to fade. Arthur didn’t bother fighting that one much. The beast was fond of it. It couldn’t be so bad.

Besides, it was becoming familiar. Around Charles, at least. 

If it echoed the same feeling he used to get around a heartbreaker named Mary or another best left unnamed, well, that just meant fighting it would get him nowhere at all.

Charles didn’t comment on the fidgeting, if he even saw it. 

“It was a quiet night for the rest of us.” He spoke as if this was supposed to be a reassuring thing to hear. Admittedly, it was. “Even Sean kept out of trouble. No howling at horses or wagons.”

“Wonder of wonders.”

“We found a small herd of deer along the plains. That might have helped.”

“Hm.” 

“Better yet, Micah spent most of the time asleep.”

“Sounds like a good night.”

“It was.”

Spoken with assurance, as embers buried in ash. Amiable. Fond. Of the night, maybe; of the group, possibly; of the whole of it, their makeshift family that Charles hadn’t been with long but had surely come to belong in, most definitely.

The warm in Arthur’s chest feeling grew. It warmed so much of him, he had to admit it felt an awful lot like happiness. 

If Charles - natural-born loner, as oft to hang at the edge of the pack as he was to leave it entirely on a full moon - said it was a good night, Arthur trusted it was. 

In light of that, he supposed he could take a little more time before making his rounds. Dutch had nothing foul to overhear-- at least not about the night prior, and at least nothing besides what he himself had a hand in causing. 

Arthur’d take it. 

He moved his hat to cover his face, to keep the meager sunlight out of his eyes. Before, though, he opened his eyes (his _right_ eye, anyway; his left had swelled near shut) and gave Charles a wry smile.

Something else must’ve played across his expression, because Charles’ look went a little incredulous of the _you look ridiculous_ variety. As Arthur was the one laying in the dirt and fixing to take a nap, he didn’t fight that opinion, either. A part of him, the warm part, the part with a lazy beast that didn’t always understand why instincts couldn’t be acted on without second thought, wanted to call Charles on it. Or, well. Maybe not call him on it. That would’ve meant a fuss.

But act on it. Yes. That would satisfy.

However, Arthur knew Charles prided himself on his stoic poise, so he didn’t act on it. He was sure he knew how he’d act on it, and-- it wasn’t the time. Was all. 

He had a nap to take.

He fixed his hat over his eyes, blocking out the sun and any tempting sights.

“If anyone comes looking for you, I’ll tell them you aren’t here,” Charles said. Quietly, so as to not be a disturbance. With fondness, which might’ve been a mistake on interpretation on Arthur’s part.

Not trusting his mouth, Arthur hummed in gratitude.

Charles, thankfully, got it. Presumably, he went back to watching the forest. The silence was interrupted only by the occasional sip of his coffee.

Despite the peace of the moment and the exhaustion in his aching bones, Arthur found it hard to doze off.

His thoughts kept spinning like the wheels of an upturned wagon. He needed to write them down. He couldn’t possibly write them down.

He enjoyed the quiet and the company, all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! find me on [tumblr @ unkingly](https://unkingly.tumblr.com/) if you like.


End file.
